


Prologue

by AuroraDefae



Series: Aubrianna Maren Holmes [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Post Reichenbach, Sherlock Holmes Returns after Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-02
Updated: 2013-04-06
Packaged: 2017-12-06 23:45:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 5,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/741578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuroraDefae/pseuds/AuroraDefae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I tried to approach the cliche Post-Reidenbach uniquely. This note goes through the viewpoint of a lot of characters, right through their eyes and thoughts. <br/>How much does John suffer? Lestrade? Irene? Mrs. Hudson? Moriarty???<br/>But most importantly, who is Aubrianna and why is she affected so harshly?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Initial responses

**Author's Note:**

> The combination of:  
> >Post-Reichenbach  
> >Moriarty P-R  
> >Irene P-R  
> >Threads/Multi R response

Evan Dennis stared at the crowd gathering around the body of the man who had just jumped. His heart painfully thumped as he watched a short blonde man  try to run over to the hospital, only to be knocked over by a oblivious bicyclist. _They seem to plague the city_ , he thought as he watched the bicyclist continue on and turn into an alley. The man’s loud laments could be heard from the store’s doorstep. He looked down at the groceries in his hands. How irrelevant they seemed. Milk, some eggs. Beans. A man had just died. Everyday, people died, committed suicide. Got shot. Consumed poison. But something felt different about this man’s jump and the friend’s reaction. Something...out of the ordinary.

****

Something........false.

\-------------------------------

The lights overhead glared too brightly as his mind got back on track.

****

Sherlock swung himself off of the stretcher, even if a part of his mind was screaming he wouldn’t have any balance. The counter under his fingers was cold against his still-stiff fingers as he leaned heavily on them. There was the microscope, the petri dishes. He pulled his head up from the counters to find Molly nervously standing by the doors, holding a rag. He pushed back his fake-blood soaked hair as he took it from her. She opened her mouth and then shut it.

****

Sherlock walked to one of the sink, turning it on and staring at the water rushing out of the faucet. It was burning his hands, but he didn't notice. Nor did he notice the fake blood dripping from his face. All he could think of was John's voice.

****

_"Sherlock! NO!"_

****

He brought the steaming hot washcloth to his face. He only mildly noticed it was burning him until she came over and turned the water off, leaving them in silence. She timidly cleared her throat as he stood there with the cloth over his face. "Are you okay? I mean, well, besides...umm.."

****

"Molly, pl...please don't try to make conversation," he said to her, his voice cracking.

****

"What about John?" She blurted out.

****

Sherlock threw the cloth across the room. "DON'T YOU DARE SPEAK HIS NAME, MOLLY, OR I SWE-"

\-------------------------------------

The wonderful handy man that had helped her the last few day was just leaving as John came in.

 

Mrs. Hudson knew immediately that something was wrong with him. He was crying, weaving around with his limp back, worse than ever before. She tried to offer him a cuppa, but he just shook his head. Wondering what could have scared him this much, and where Sherlock was, she jumped when the phone rang. It was Lestrade.

****

"Are you sitting down Mrs. Hudson?" were his first words. When she had stuttered out a yes, her heart contracting, he had gone on. "Sherlock just-" his voice broke off in emotion before coming back. "Sherlock, h..he just jumped of the hospital...and he's..Sherlock Holmes is...."

****

Lestrade broke off here, his voice too overcome with emotion. Even so, Mrs. Hudson guessed the words, and her heart sank.

****

_Sherlock is dead._

****

Once she had gathered her emotions, she looked at John. He was not taking this well. He looked like he was arguing with himself, his brow furrowed and his head shaking and nodding. He looked like he was in his mind palace-

****

No. Don't think of that, don't think of that-

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"A....Aubri....Aubrianna."

I looked at the little boy framed in my doorway, who was panting as if he had been running for blocks to find me. I made him sit down at one of the chairs in the sparse kitchen that I shared with my friends in the neighborhood. Getting a glass of water for the worn-out boy, he slowly calmed down. I dragged back another chair, and waited for him to be ready. When I deemed he was, I cleared my throat.

****

"What happened Peter?" That was his name, Peter. I had recently rescued him from a kidnapping.

****

"Sherlock. He just jumped off the hospital. He's been confirmed dead."

****

I leaned back, speechless. I had been ready to travel to what I considered my home. To wherever Sherlock was. _Now..now.._

_**** _

_Sherlock, what have you gotten yourself into?_

****

I remembered our bittersweet youth. He would always be able to find my toys when I lost them (which was a frequent occurrence.) We had imagined all sort of situations as we played together in our youth.

****

_Sherlock...dead._

****

No, something must be wrong. Peter's just traumatized still.

\-------------------------------------------

I looked at Peter for a while longer before my thoughts gathered. Standing up, I pushed in my chair and smiled to him. “Run along Peter. You know how your mother worries.”

****

“Ma’am, it’s the truth! I saw his face get bashed in! I saw-”

****

“That’s enough, Peter. Run along.” I tried to steady my voice, but my simmering shock and frustration boiled out in my exclamation.

****

He took one look at me with wide eyes before running off, nearly knocking over Amelia Clarke. She took one look at me before coming over and engulfing me in an enormous bear hug.

****

“Is it true Amelia?” I sobbed out as she made calming noises. She suddenly went quiet, and I had my answer.

****

My world spun around, squeezing closer and closer to me before I entered severe shock.

\-------------------------------------------------------------

Baker Street was silent except for the sound of sobbing when Lestrade walked in. John was dazing out on the couch, evidently in shock. Mrs. Hudson was wringing her hands and weeping.

****

Neither one noticed when he walked in, equally shocked and torn. He had just chewed off Donovan and Anderson for making him arrest Sherlock. If they hadn’t he would be ali-

****

He made an animal noise of despair deep in his throat as he tried to unsuccessfully shut out the truth.

****

A lie would suffice.

****

Sherlock survived. He just faked that. He repeated that to himself, trying to elevate his sinking and broken heart. It didn’t work. The empirical evidence was all too clear: no pulse, extreme loss of blood, and nevermind the impact of the fall.

****

Mrs. Hudson’s weeping slowed down, and she saw him. She tried to speak, but that just made her weep louder. He went over and touched her shoulder, as if this grief could be lifted as they shared it.

\----------------------------------------------------------

Goodbye Irene.~SH

****

_What does that mean?_

 

That was when the news came out. Twitter trends. News broadcasts interrupted. Sherlock William Holmes was dead by suicide, and was a "Fake Genius."

 

She was shocked. Speechless. _"Fake Genius" my foot!_ It had taken him five seconds to figure out a string of numbers meaning. He had solved numerous cases when all was against him.

 

_Fake genius._

**  
**She hoped he had merely taken a cue from her and faked this all- despite the..faking of the fake genius. She hoped he was alive somewhere, tearing up the articles or having heart attacks because of grammatical errors. She smiled, then wiped that off her face.


	2. Deteriorating.....

His feet hit the pavement in a steady rhythm as he ran. His curly hair was barely contained in the hat pulled over his eyes. He had his distinctive trench coat folded into the ratty backpack also beating a steady beat on him.

****

For the first time in his life, Sherlock was running. Running away from his troubles. Running away from his friends. Running from the battleground of London.

****

When he exhaled, he almost could feel himself sobbing.

****

He was sure Moriarty had faked his death, but couldn’t go up to investigate. He hated how many cases he was leaving behind. Once, he had said to John, “Mrs. Hudson, leave Bakers Street? England would fall!”

****

He knew that London would very quickly fall without its Consulting Detective. Sure, Lestrade’s division might fight back on the crime, but they would be slow and cumbersome. And what’s more, if Moriarty had really lived, he could go on a crime spree without anyone to stop him.

****

He hoped his friends were safe. He knew they hadn’t died; Molly had gotten phone calls from Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson, telling her their reality: Sherlock was dead. She didn’t need to pretend to break down, as she was crying for him. She was trying to take his grief from him, so he wouldn’t hurt.

****

Staying to back alleys, Sherlock wound his way to Molly’s apartment. He narrowly avoided being seen as he sneaked into it via balconies. He fought down flashbacks of his second major case with John, the one involving the Black Lotus. _The Blind Banker_ , he had titled it on his blog. Sherlock wished he had insulted John’s writing less. He wish he could apologize for his sociopathic behavior. He wished he could apologize to Mrs. Hudson for shooting her wall and for every time he snapped at her.

****

_Darn it, I might even apologize to Anderson for calling him stupid if I had the chance_ , he thought as he reached Molly’s  balcony and opened the door, which she was to leave unlocked. There was a note on the glass door, saying she had to go to the morgue, but his temporary room was set up in the living room.

****

He was too tired to deduct; his brain just focused on memories. His mind palace had been burned to the ground. He felt human, not the computer that John had seen in him.

****

Finding a sheet pinned to the ceiling to create a room around the couch, he sighed and threw the backpack down, throwing himself on the bumpy cushions.

****

Molly came home to find him asleep on the couch, his cheeks streaked with tears. She smiled sadly before shutting herself in her bedroom and crying for hours and hours.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

Amelia was still hugging me when a huge commotion sounded outside, yelling and bangs, as if of gunfire. My grief making me reckless, I ran to the doorframe to look out to see a giant fight. It was at least twenty to one, the one being a girl about my age. She was very beat up, her arms bloody. Forgetting all caution, I ran out and joined her in the fight against the assorted mob of people.

****

At one point, I was shoved, hard, and my ankle twisted and snapped. I screamed in pain, and fought even harder.

****

Soon enough, Amelia dragged me back as the cops came. She knew how I hated being in the newspaper; it was all the more chance that Sherlock would find me. The girl was intact, and she looked at me very quickly, her expression saying thank you. She was then laid down in a stretcher, an ambulance sounding in the distance.

****

I can’t believe this, I thought as my ankle throbbed. “Amelia?” I called from the living room, where she had laid me down. She came to the entryway, leaning on the doorframe. “I need to get a favor to fix this ankle. Tell me if any clients come.”

****

At this, I sat back on the couch and lightly cried myself to sleep.

\------------------------------------

“Sherlock, you’re risking everything! Don’t go and visit your grave because you want to see John. What if he sees you?” Molly protested as Sherlock disguised himself, readying himself to walk out the front door. He knew that John would want to visit his tomb after a few days had passed, not wanting anyone else there to offer sympathy. It had been five days, and Molly said most of his friends had visited him. John would know this too, and would be visiting the tombstone today or tomorrow.

****

“Molly, you aren’t going to convince me to not take this chance to see John, even if I can’t speak to him. Goodbye.” He walked swiftly to the door, shutting it behind him as he confidently stalked out.

\--------------------------------------------------------

He arrived at the graveyard before John came, and quickly scrambled up the tall tree standing by his grave. After a few hours and passed, and he was growing increasingly bored and worried, he saw John and Mrs. Hudson come up. She rambled on a bit before excusing herself. John then turned to the shiny, black tombstone, and spoke to Sherlock, or to his supposed body. When he did so, Sherlock had to restrain himself from jumping down from the tree.

****

“You told me once that you weren’t a hero… um.. there were times I didn’t even think you were human, but, let me tell you this: you were the best man and human… human being I’ve ever known, and no-one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, that’s… uh. There.”

****

“I was so alone, and I owe you so much.”

****

At this, he limped away, then came back to say the most emotional thing Sherlock had ever heard him say.

****

“Look, please, there’s just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don’t. Be. Dead. Would you do that, just for me, just… stop it. Stop this!”

****

He then walked off, his shoulders shaking. Sherlock was frozen where he was sitting in the tree.

****

Very soon, Molly never saw him. He would constantly hide in the tree to keep track of John as he waited to make sure he could return.

****

Over the course of those three years, Sherlock watched and heard John break down multiple times at his grave.

****

“Sherlock, god dam- I should have told you...! Now you’re dead!”

****

“Please come back. I’ve used blades.”

****

“I’ve moved out and gave Mycroft all your stuff. Except for the skull and that bloody hat.”

****

“My ex-girlfriends have tried to get me out, back into life, out of my depression, but I just can't. I just....”

****

So it would go on, day after day, John looking sicker and sicker, until he didn’t show up for a day. Then the next. Then a whole week without hearing John’s voice. Worry gnawed at his heart. It had been almost three years, but he was worried about Moriarty. Yet his friends were withering away anyways. Mrs. Hudson was thinner and had a heart problem. Lestrade was made fun of and had lost weight. Mycroft was thinner and gaunter, holding himself with no self esteem. He had resigned from all of his government roles.

****

Two weeks passed before he saw a thin figure coming up the walkway to his tombstone. He had decided. He didn’t madly dash up the tree. He stood there as John came up with a weapon of some sort in his pocket. His shoulders were stooped, implying defeat. He looked up at the black marble, then almost turned around when he looked up enough to see Sherlock’s shoes.

 


	3. Homecoming to the torn city

“John-” Sherlock cried out, the amount of what he wanted to say too much for him to speak.

****

John jumped, turning around slowly, his shoulder muscles tensing.

****

“S..Sher..Sherlock?”

****

And then he collapsed.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sherlock ran to him, catching him before he fell on the cold, wet ground. He was thinner than he had ever been, his eyes wet and red. It was easy, too easy, to lift him as Sherlock turned in the direction of the city.

****

As he reached the outer reaches of the city, he heard people gasp, some cry out, and tires squeal. By the time he had gotten to the hospital, he had been touched by every pedestrian, yet he remained aloof  and shook of their hands. His jaw was set as he entered the emergency room. Everyone ceased talking  as he approached the counter.

****

"I need you to look at my friend." he said to the wide-eyed receptionist. He sucked in a breath of annoyance as everyone stood in shock.

****

"Dammit...my friend just fainted, and you guys are all just standing there. Help him...please!" he shouted, trying to bring everyone  out of this stilling shock.

****

A door squeaked open, and Molly came out of it, motioning for Sherlock to follow her. He did, rushing as John bounced up and down in his arms. He was light, too light. She lead him to where a doctor was sitting, having a cup of tea. Doctor Moore, according to his nametag, took one look at Sherlock and John before turning ghostly white and dropping his teacup.

****

He stood up hastily and tried to take John from Sherlock’s arms. After a last look at his friend’s face, Sherlock gave Moore the remnant of John with an unspoken plea. An unspoken plea to undo what he had evoked to his friend during these long years.

****

Sherlock couldn’t focus his mind enough to make deductions as he paced back and forth in front of the room where the doctor was with John. Molly stood by, trying to say something to him, but he couldn’t catch it. Eventually, she grabbed his arm gingerly, telling him nervously that she was calling everyone to tell them that he was alive.

****

His heart froze as Moriarty’s face surfaced in his mind, much as it had when he was standing in the hollow inhaling the H.O.U.N.D  drug. He nodded, as if to say ‘if you must’ before continuing to pace, even more agitated.

****

Uncertain footsteps came down the hallway moments later. He stopped pacing as he stood with his arms crossed.

****

For a moment, Lestrade stood there, staring at him, before he light-headley walked to a chair, dropping heavily into it.

****

The only sound was the buzzing overhead lights as Lestrade and Sherlock stared at each other. Sherlock began pacing yet again, but slower.

****

“Sherlock?” came Mrs. Hudson’s distinctive voice. She was smiling in shock when Sherlock turned around to hug her, taking in the smell of Grey tea that hung around her. She began to ask why he had waited three years, why he would do this to John, and how he was not dead before Sherlock shook his head, not able to focus. He resolutely ignored Mycroft, who came in and sat down in a chair quickly, before standing up and moving farther away from Lestrade. If this happened, or meant anything, Sherlock didn’t notice.

****

He just went back and forth, back and forth, his hands pressed together under his chin as if he was praying. And maybe he was; to the universe’s power and turns, or to karma and chance. Or perhaps to intelligence and science, as that was what might save John.

****

_John._

****

Sherlock had secretly enjoyed reading him like a book everyday. His worries, his joys. His mental and physical state. How his leg was doing.

****

He was interrupted from this train of thoughts by Doctor Moore, who had cleared his throat.

****

“He’s going to make it.”

****

In his moment of insane relief, he almost allowed a feeling of joy to seize him, but restrained himself before asking, “Can I...?” Doctor Moore nodded yes, and Sherlock pushed past him to where John was lying in a hospital bed. He barely left a pattern in the sheets as he slept, his chest rising and falling tranquility.

****

He stood and watched as the others come in to pay their respects. He put on his  best 'aloof' face, trying to avoid talking to these people who had become separate from his life.  

****

Lestrade  tried to talk to him, but gave up quickly. Mrs. Hudson looked at him with sad eyes before walking out. He closed his eyes, hoping Mycroft would go away. He opened one  of his eyes, noticed his brother was still there, standing in silence, and promptly closed that eye again. It had always been this way; the two Holmes brothers, standing in silence, a mental stalemate. They would have stood like this forever, had it not been for Mycroft’s ringing phone. He sighed exasperatedly before answering it and leaving Sherlock and John alone.

****

Low-energy lights flicked on, replacing the harsh white glow of the overheads. Sherlock found a chair, pulling it up next to John’s bed, falling asleep despite a self-promise to stay awake.

 


	4. John

His dreams were back, but more real than ever. He could swear he was touching Sherlock’s curls, his fingers looping around the black ringlets.

****

The vision of Sherlock by the tombstone had been more realistic than ever before. He knew moments before committing suicide, someone wanted to live more than ever. The thought of Sherlock being alive, even after all this time, was a thought that had gotten him through the first few months. But as the second year came and went, something had snapped in him. He tried to move on by not visiting the grave, but that had made the dreams more realistic. Eventually, he caved in. He couldn’t do this anymore. Maybe he could lie next to Sherlock underneath the earth. It would be peaceful then; he wouldn’t be bothered.

****

He sighed, opening his eyes. He ignored the pain he had gotten used to living with; the empty stomach, his leg, his shaking hands.

****

_He opened his eyes._

****

He saw that he indeed was stroking tumbling black curls. The face they were attached too was more serene than John had ever seen it. His heart jumped as his eyes tried to deny the truth in front of his eyes. _But whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth_ , Sherlock had once said. And even if this was improbable, the fact he was alive after jumping- John took a deep breath as his feeling surged- this had to be proper reality. Sherlock was alive.  

****

His heart leapt at this acceptation of truth, of reality.

****

Sherlock woke up, his expression confused looking before he saw those eyes. For the first time in three years, the calm, summer ocean looked into the stormy dark blue ocean.

****

Sherlock cracked a grin, or what would be called a grin, before they both started laughing, cusses and questions passing between them.

****

John wheezed, trying to stop as his stomach protested from this laughing. Something flickered behind Sherlock’s eyes before he stood up, as if going to find a nurse. John shook his head, and Sherlock sat back down. Once he got back his breath, John took one look at Sherlock and said:

****

“You absolute, complete idiot.”

****

Sherlock winced, taking a deep breath. This would be a hard, but well deserved, explanation.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Why the bloody hell..”

“You idiot...”

“Why...?”

****

Sherlock just sat there with his face in his hands. He winced as if every single accusation from John was a tiny dagger, stabbed again and again and again.

****

John broke down as the lights buzzed. He began wheezing again, and Sherlock's heart felt a momentary stop.

****

“You know what? Just leave me alo-”

****

“No. I will not John. Never again,” Sherlock interrupted.

****

John just exhaled and stared across the room with his arms crossed. His one hand was shaking. This was not as Sherlock had imagined his homecoming to be.

****

"Moriarty was going to kill you if I didn't jump, John. I...I faked my death to save you. You've got to understand, I didn't want to leave you all thinking me dead. Please believe me. Please." Sherlock stopped, his eyes pleading for John to understand. Eventually, John exhaled, his breath dragging on and on, until he said, "I believe you. I'm sorry. Just waiting for you has been so, so hard. I..I...” He broke off at that point, searching for the words. Sherlock cleared his throat. He knew what the words were. In fact he wanted to reciprocate them, but the normal words were inadequate. They were closer in a different way.

****

They were spared this awkward moment dragging on by Doctor Moore, coming in to check up on John. “Hey John, how are you feeling?” He asked, obviously feeling the tense environment. John meekly smiled as he glanced away from Sherlock. “Better. And I don’t believe we’ve met...Dr. Moore,” said John, squinting to read the name tag.

****

Sherlock inwardly laughed at Dr. Moore’s ‘how did you know that’ face, that was all too familiar. A bit of pride grew in Sherlock as he watched him and Dr. Moore talk. John was trying to diagnose everything that was wrong with him, being the doctor, and Dr. Moore kept saying, “No, I insist. Let me.”

****

Eventually, John gave up being the doctor and sat there while Dr. Moore checked his eyes, ears, and throat. He stepped back and crossed his arms before addressing John. “You are dehydrated, malnourished, are sleep deprived, and have a weak heart. What in the world have you done to yourself?” Sherlock had listened to all this with his eyes wide. Not able to stand the guilt riding on his shoulders, he stood up and stalked out of the room.

****

He burst into the sunlight outside, squinting as people once again stopped in their tracks. Ignoring them, he stalked off in a random direction. He soon discovered his feet were taking him to 221B. The guilt growing as he brooded, he hesitated seeing Mrs. Hudson. How would he meet her eyes? How would he accept the sympathy he had never learned to receive, but so dearly wanted.

****

Whether he wanted to or not, he found himself at the door decorated with a shiny gold 221B. He opened the door with a hesitant hand, listening for Mrs. Hudson. Not running into her, he walked up the dusty stairway to the flat. The railing was clean, and he knew John had leaned against it as his limp got worse. The door at the top of the stairway was ajar, and he gently pushed it open with his fingertips. _Oh god,_ he thought as he took it in.

 

 


	5. Realization of the state of deterioration

Lestrade came into the flat moments later to find Sherlock angrily plucking his violin perched like a bird on the only clean part of the room: his chair. The rest of the room was chaos. Books were torn apart. Pillows thrown all over, some torn open. And the mirror above the fireplace was shattered. “Sherlo-” Lestrade started to say. “I swear, it was like this when I came,” Sherlock said insistently as he plucked especially loudly.

****

Lestrade swore as he looked around. “How’s John? I’m surprised you're here instead of there.” Sherlock swallowed, and refused to meet Lestrade’s eyes. “Oh come on- don’t tell me you're blaming yourself for this, I’m sure you had your reasons.”

****

“Lestrade, h..he was going to kill himself. On my gravestone. He was dying, and came very close to it. It’s all my fault.” Sherlock couldn’t hide the emotion underneath his voice. Lestrade swore again quietly before slowly saying, “Sherlock, as I said, you had your reasons. I know you did. Just go to where you want to be. If that’s here fine. If its with John, even better.”

****

Thinking, Sherlock picked up the bow and began to play a sorrowful tune. Lestrade listened for a minute, then turned around and walked off, padding down the stairs.

****

The music looped into crescendos and decrescendos, but Sherlock wasn’t paying attention. He was turned inward, rebuilding his mind palace. Occasionally, he pulled out his phone to look something up before resuming the tune. When the light outside was fading, and the street lamps outside were turning on, he put down the violin, his mind palace complete.

****

His face controlled and his mind ordered, he slowly put on his coat and tied his scarf, heading to the hospital, to where John was.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------  
John was sitting up, eating a bowl of soup. He weakly smiled at Sherlock as he came in and sat in the chair he had vacated earlier. “Sherlock, please don’t blame yourself for my sorry state. I’m sor-”

****

“No don’t be sorry, John. I should have had someone looking after you, like Molly. Or Sarah.”

****

“Sherlock, even though you were an absolute idiot, you had your reasons. You don’t need to keep apologizing.”

****

“-And if you do, I won’t accept anything from you. Last time I did that, you tried to drug me.” John added, laughing. Sherlock nervously joined in, until John was fighting for air alongside Sherlock.

 

An unspoken agreement passed between them; all was forgiven. Sure, the wound was still there, a big gash, but it had been bandaged. And they began to talk to one another as if Sherlock’s jump had never happened, until John’s head bobbed down as he fell asleep. Sherlock smiled inwardly, moving away the tray of food before falling asleep in the chair.

 


	6. Aubrianna

Standing in the office building with phones buzzing around me was making my skin break out in goosebumps, and I shivered. A tall, thin lady dressed in a business suit was sorting through a stack of files, trying to track down information that could help me solve my latest case. I bent my good leg, sore from taking all the weight, and inwardly sighed. I had been waiting almost two hours, and my leg would give out soon.

****

She pulled open yet another file cabinet, and I grumbled as I sat down. Maybe not professional, but you get what you get. I pulled away my ankle brace, wincing at the purple skin. At least the girl who had been attacked was okay.

****

After another half hour, the woman leapt up victoriously, waving a fat file. She looked around for me, then noticed me waving from the floor and came over to hand the dusty folder to me.  

****

I then zoned out as I began to scan the folder. Names and handwriting analysis swirled around my head. I went through it quickly, not finding what I needed. The pain in my ankle was throbbing, distracting me as I went through my brain.

_**** _

_Constance Smith. Constance. Smith._

****

I had heard the name somewhere. As I racked through my mind, It dawned on me, and I felt my heart speed up in disgust. She was the cousin of Destin  Smith, my archenemy.

****

I slowly stood up, giving the folder back to the woman before turning and limping off. This would be an easy wrap up. Outside, an icey rain was coming down, and I pulled my thin coat tighter around me. My limp caused me to slip many a time, and I paused as I walked past 221B. I stared at the door before moving on. Even after turning off of Bakers street, I still felt the pull to go in, out of this rain. Yet I trudged on, towards the shared housing of the abandoned section of London, commonly called the homeless city. It was my home until the day I could go home, to where Sherlock was.

****

The streets were empty as I walked past the brick wall that marked the homeless city, and I counted doors until I arrived to Tim Lewis’ house. I knocked three times, and the door was opened seconds later. I brushed off offers to come in and dry off, saying, “I need to know where Constance Smith is living currently. I know they moved, and I know you will have heard word of it.” Tim looked at me, and I could see the debate in his eyes. He finally decided, saying, “Red door, three down from me. Are you sure you don’t want an umbrella at least?” I shook my head no, thanking him as I stepped off the doorstep into the rain. Instead of walking to Constance’s house, I walked to my client, who had told me she would wait up with police.

****

Her house was moderately warm, the rain drumming on the roof and windows as I walked into the living room. I paused at the sight of the police officer as I always did out of habit. It would not do for Sherlock or Mycroft to find me before I was ready. My client, Mrs. Purdue, saw me hesitating at the doorframe and called out to me, using my fake name: Jessica Decalte. The officer turned around, his eyebrows arching at my worn clothing and torn jeans. I cleared my throat before saying, “The thief is Constance Smith, and she is in the house with the red door, about five down.” The officer waited to make sure that was it before standing up and calling for assistance on his walkie-talkie. I peeled of my soggy coat before collapsing in a chair by the fireplace.

****

“Aubrianna,” Mrs. Purdue started, “what favor do you need? I can help you with most anything.” I rubbed my eyes before replying, “I broke my ankle a week ago, and need to get medical attention for it. I mean, if that’s not too much-”

****

“Nonsense, child, nothing is too much. You  just rescued my family heirlooms. Come here tomorrow, and I’ll take you to Doctor Adams.” I thanked her before heaving myself up and throwing my coat over my shoulders, going out the way I had come.

****

The rain outside had let up a bit, and some kids were playing in rain. One laughed in a deep belly laugh, and I stopped for a second before reminding myself Sherlock was grown up, and not the little boy he used to be.

 


	7. Return of the tyrant.

He _laughed_  at the whole sequence of events.

****

The world's only consulting detective was dead. His own death had been easy.

****

The pistol was fake; just a dispenser for medicine that would make him near dead in appearance. A packet of blood had been stored underneath his coat collar, bursting open when squeezed between him and the ground. He hated that he had to sacrifice one of his Westwood suits to kill Sherlock.

****

_Oh well._

****

The assassins had played their parts and purpose beautifully.

****

It had not taken long to prepare his speech, as he _was_ Richard Brooke. The actor turned consulting criminal when being good got boring.

****

He had always been complimented on his ability to act and convince people of another reality. Roping in that tabloid journalist had been easy. Using his past as proof, even easier.

****

A little thought was trying to eat through his confidence though.

****

_What if Sherlock double-guessed on me, and is still alive?_

_No, impossible._

**  
**That was when he heard the rumors circulating. Sherlock was back from the dead.


	8. Aubrianna comes home

Sherlock stared out the window of John’s hospital room, relaying everything he remembered from the time Moriarty broke into the crown jewels, to when he had jumped. John was typing on a laptop, taking notes. They had fought for a while, Sherlock refusing at first to let the story go public.

****

Sherlock concluded, and turned to look at John. The person he turned around to was the John he knew; his cheeks were rosy and the shadows underneath his eyes were thinner. John glanced up at him, and smiled before finishing his notes.

****

A small, hunched figure walking outside caught Sherlock’s eye as she walked by. Nobody knew it, but he was always looking at teenagers, hoping for them to be his sister. Even though she had been assumed dead when his mum had run away with her.

****

He sighed, and John glanced up at him with a question scrunching his eyebrows together. Sherlock just shook his head before sitting down in the chair by John’s bed.

****

“You get out tomorrow John. We can finally go back to 221B.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Sherlock- where are you going?”

****

Sherlock turned around to look at John, who was sitting in one of the armchairs, typing on his blog. “I need some fresh air. I’ll be back soon. Until then, bye.”

****

They were home in their flat, their first week now passing since John had been released from the hospital.

****

He listened to the front door downstair slam, and heard the lock click. Sighing, he went back to his blog, where he was typing “The Reichenbach Fall”, the full explanation of what had happened to make Sherlock jump and fake his death. When the door creaked open a few minutes later, he was expecting Sherlock.

****

Instead, he got the shock of his life.

_**** _

_Aubrianna._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This leads into "The Case of the Fainting Sister". Please follow the arrow where it says "Part four of the Aubrianna Maren Holmes series"


End file.
